


I'll tare the night, Keep it from you

by Smoakin_dontburnyourself



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Missing Scene, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 21:31:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11677470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smoakin_dontburnyourself/pseuds/Smoakin_dontburnyourself
Summary: “I have never been one of hopes”  he says quietly, shoulder sagging before adding “Although lately, It seems I cannot help myself against them”Post-Cannon





	I'll tare the night, Keep it from you

**Author's Note:**

> THAT FINALE! This is super short because I just watched the last episode and It basically killed me. I wanted to tie up some loose ends and my heart just wanted something more for my babies.
> 
> Title taken from 'Bare' by WILDES

It’s thanks to Isabella that the city is saved.

 

Rosaline’s memory is in fragments once it's all truly over. She remembers the execution, the tears staining her cheeks, Benvolio on his knees. She remembers the hopelessness of seeing him there,  _ this is all my fault _ , it echoed in her mind, pounded through her veins. Then the arrow, Escalus bleeding, betrayal filling his wide eyes. She remembers the chaos, she remembers not being scared,  _ I’m not leaving here without him _ She remembers Benvolio  _ and I’m not leaving here without you. _ The rest of it is a tangle of movement and adrenaline that propels her forward. When she tells Isabella this, quietly, each flanking an edge of the Prince’s bed, she nods, in a tired way that means she knows the feeling too. She won a war that night, the princess of Verona, saved her fair city. But still, in her eyes there is defeat as she looks upon her brother.  

 

“He’ll never be the same” Isabella tells her in a whisper

 

Escalus’ features are frayed, even in his most innocent sleep. Rosaline watches his chest rise and fall knowing that Isabella is right. Who will he be knowing that half of his city turned on him at the first inkling of trouble?  nearly killed him? What will be left of him? She knows not. All she knows is the relief settled deep in her gut,  _ he’s alive, he’s alive _ , it's all that matters.

 

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

  
  


Livia tells her everything. And for what it's worth, she tells her that she’s sorry. 

 

Sorry for keeping the truth from her, sorry for thinking that the world was pure and kind like her own heart. She tells her about all she has lost. And despite the strength that Rosaline has always kept surrounding her heart, she hold onto her sister and weeps

 

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

 

When he’s well enough to, Escalus tells her that he loves her. 

 

Its an afterthought, he knows that. But, with his voice rough from sleep and healing, he speaks the words anyways. The admission settles around them with a familiarity that only comes from knowing each other as long as they had.

 

“And I you, Escalus”   

 

It's not the same, at least not anymore. He feels it then, a  _ what could have been _ slipping through his fingers. He thinks that maybe he knew it all along, for what can a prince know about love? What might he offer when all that exists of him is already promised to Verona?

 

_ Strength and Sacrifice  _ is his last thought, before he gives himself over to sleep once more.

 

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

  
  


She’s looking for Benvolio but finds his uncle instead.

 

He means to thank her for what she has done for his nephew, but he can’t quite find the words. He’s tattered from war and from regret that she reads so easily on his face.

 

_ How could you hate him so? _ She wants to ask  _ How could you not love him? For he is so easy to love _

 

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

  
  


She finds Benvolio when the castle barricade is finally lifted.

 

The chaos of a city preparing for war had taken him from her. The very same war brings him back to her now, beard thicker, eyes bloodshot and circled, but  _ alive _ , and It's the most beautiful thing she could ever pray to see.

 

She slips into his temporary chambers unnoticed, under the pretense of offering him a bowl of broth. Its not proper, she knows, but what is propriety in the aftermath of the bloodshed they have endured? She has even thought about what she would say to him, Y _ ou must eat, Montegue, You haven’t had a proper meal in days _ , but when he smiles a small familiar smile, she finds that she can do nothing but smile back.  

 

She wants to tell him that she is sorry, that she is glad, that she is so many things at once that she can hardly manage it.

 

Instead, she lifts up the steaming bowl cupped in her hands in silent offer.

 

Benvolio’s fingers thread over her own, fitting between them just so before pulling the bowl completely out of her outstretched palms. 

 

“Thank you” he says, meeting her gaze in the candle-lit room, meaning it in more ways than one

 

She sits beside him on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the dark window across the room, until she’s sure all the soup is gone.

 

The night is heavy on his shoulders, its weight sways him just enough that the heat of his arm presses up against her own. The feel of him anchors her to where they are, safe, alive,  _ together _ . Absentmindedly, she thinks that perhaps her prayers have been answered after all.

 

“I have always been hopeful” Rosaline says, after a moment “Foolish as that may be”

 

And she had been, somewhere deep behind the exterior that she had built around herself. Hopeful that Juliet might find love, no matter names, no matter feuds. Hopeful that Livia might be free, somehow, from the cruelty and greed that plagued their city. She might have even been hopeful, once, that with her sacrifice, the city might have been healed from the hate that rotted its walls. It seemed a lifetime ago that she hated Benvolio, that she hoped for a different world entirely. Sometimes, she suspects that she never hated him at all.

 

She’s not sure what to say next, how to tell him that she had been hopeful for him too. How she nearly used herself up, scratched and clawed, faced the prince, faced all of Verona, all for him, just for him. She doesn’t think her words could do it justice, what she feels for him, how he has taken her and so completely turned her inside out. She does not know how, she does not know when, all she knows is the truth that aches in her heart.

 

Rosaline draws in a breath and tilts her face to the side. Benvolio’s expression is gentle, unguarded, as if the quiet between them is the only place where he allows himself to  _ trust _ .

 

As a type of confession, she settles for, “I am hopeful yet”  

 

Rosaline is suddenly too aware of the dirt that is crusted over the front of her gown. It’s Isabella’s and it fits a little too tightly on the sleeves. She thinks she must look tired, and she has not had a good bath since before running off from the balcony of her room. She links hers fingers together in her lap self consciously, aware now of how close they sit.

 

“Tell me” he says, surprising her once more. He has made a habit of it, so it seems “We are friends, are we not, Capulet?”

 

Rosaline nods, then counters with “Do  _ you _ ever have hopes?”

 

The question catches him by surprise, like maybe he’s not sure where she is going with it. She feels him retreat behind something neutral. His expression hardens ever so slightly, in a way that someone who knew him less might not have noticed. He lets out a breath then, softening once more as he risks a glance in her direction

 

“I have never been one of hopes”  he says quietly, shoulder sagging before adding “Although lately, It seems I cannot help myself against them”  

 

Rosaline looks up at the confession, searching his bright blue eyes. He meets her stare, defenseless against the probing brown of her gaze. His next words are so whispered that briefly, she thinks she has imagined them 

 

“Lately, I hope for things that I should not” 

 

_ I hope for you _ , it's unspoken, but it hangs between them just the same.

 

Rosaline doesn’t move away when he leans in. His hand is warm and rough when it first rests against the side of her neck. Cups her under the chin. There is pain in her heart when she thinks of the last time his lips touched hers, wedged between bars, the taste of their tears salty on the corners of her mouth. This time it’s different, this time she only tastes the unique taste of whatever essence of him lives on his tongue. This time there is no desperation, no regret, no apologies, this time he pulls her in closer, like he still can’t quite believe he’s alive.The warm consequence of the broth still heats up his lips as they move against hers with gentle insistence, she melts into him, allowing herself to  _ feel.  _ His hand drops from her chin to her waist and her own hand follows, intent to keep his grasp there. 

 

Her heart is pounding at her pulse when they pull apart to breathe and he rests his forehead against hers.

“Stay with me tonight, Rosaline of house Capulet”  _ Stay with me forever  _

 

.

.

.

.

 

The next day, late into the morning, when the castle awakes, sore and joyous with victory, this is how a young servant finds Rosaline Capulet and Benvolio Montague. The young lord’s doublet laced correctly up to his throat, the lady’s gown properly creased, heavy folds of fabric rising and falling over her sleeping form. They face each other, even in their sleep, like flowers finding the sun. 

With fingers laced together in a tight and sweaty hold, they breathe in each other's quiet sighs as they marvel at the peace they find in being  _ together _ .   

**Author's Note:**

> Forever salty that ABC cancelled this amazing show.


End file.
